


Skyrim AU: Fenris Dovahkiin

by tinktheloser



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alternate Universe- Skyrim, F/M, Mage Hawke - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-02 14:24:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8670955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinktheloser/pseuds/tinktheloser
Summary: Fenris only wanted to escape the life of a slave, but then, after a close call with the executioner's ax, a dragon appears and a strange woman named Hawke drags him away from the fray and declares herself a friend for no reason he can discern. And now people are calling him Dragonborn?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It would make more sense if Hawke was the Dragonborn, but then. The idea of Fenris the "main character" as the dragonborn makes me giggle because he'd hate every second of it.
> 
> This is was totally inspired by a drunk me playing Skyrim and thinking, "What would Fenris and Hawke be doing on these long hikes for ridiculous quests?"
> 
> i'd thought about putting this in my Percy Hawke series, but I figured an au needs a series of its own. maybe.

Fenris came to, slowly, shakily, and with no small amount of ache. A throb spliced through his skull at the pace of his pulse, echoing down his spine and across the muscles and bones of his exhausted, heavy shoulders.

It wasn’t a new sensation, but the thought didn’t detract from its unpleasantness. With every dip of the wagon’s wheels, the pain sharpened and dug into his stomach, threatening to pull up whatever meager meal he’d eaten before—

Wagon wheels. He was in a wagon.

His pulse picked up, his nausea making his dark world tip and the throbbing ache increase. He couldn’t remember being caught, but he was surely on his way back to _that_ man. He’d been so careful, too, covering his tracks as he went, as he _escaped_ the life shaped for him as nothing more than a tool, a toy, a _slave._ How had the hunters found him? He must have fought back, or perhaps he’d begged for forgiveness anyway only to be beaten for his impunity. He wanted to throw up. How easily it would be for him to fall back to his old—his even _current_ ways.

There was no escape.

Fenris then realized there was a foreign pressure on his temple. It felt like a rag, one made of burlap and scraping against his skin. But it was damp and cool, and not entirely unwelcome.

Though—

“There’s not much use saving a man about to be put to death,” a voice grumbled just in front of him. His accent was thick. A Nord.

Fenris creased his brow. He needed to open his eyes. But then, if he was being put to death for attempting escape, there wouldn’t be much point. Maybe he could just—slip away, before he had to see his master again, before he could feel the _humiliation_ —

“Oh, bugger off,” another voice spoke beside him. A woman, with an accent like the Imperials. “If we’re all going to die today, I say we do it looking our best, hmm?”

She was the one holding the rag to his temple, though he couldn’t be sure why.

“What do you mean?” another man asked. “Where are we going? Where are they taking us?”

Fenris finally managed to peel his eyes open. As the blurry world slowly came into focus, light blaring into his weary eyes, he remained still as he looked on the scene. The wagon’s occupants were not focused on him, rather they were looking at the frightened man near the wagon gate. He was pale, and filthy, trembling in his rags and against his bound wrists. Looking around, Fenris realized that all their hands were bound, even the ones of the woman tending to the wound on his head.

“Well,” said the woman. “Considering I’m sitting next to Ulfric Stormcloak, I’d say we’re on a bright, cheery path to having our heads collected in a nice, woven basket.”

Fenris blinked. _Ulfric Stormcloak?_

It was a name his master had often spat, a dirty Nord that didn’t know his place in the Empire. Fenris himself had never really known what to make of the man, nor did he particularly care. But if Ulfric was here, bound with the rest of them, then death was certain.

Still, a beheading was preferable then whatever punishment lay in wait from his master— _former_ master.

“Wherever we’re going,” the man sitting in front of him agreed, against the cowering man’s protests. “Sovngarde awaits.”

Then, the man suddenly turned to him. “Ah, you’re finally awake.”

Fenris blinked, and nodded, flinching when the woman next to him shifted to get a better look at him. He glanced at her, unsure of her smile and her assessing gaze. He knew they’d all at least glanced at his silvery tattoos, even now as the woman’s eyes lingered up and down his arms where they shimmered in the soft light.

“You took a nasty blow to the head,” she said, lowering her bound hands to refold the damp rag. “Do you remember anything?”

Fenris didn’t answer immediately. It was a blur. He’d been hiding out at a post, waiting for the Imperial guards to pass through, when a commotion had distracted him and Stormcloaks were unsheathing their swords—

Somehow, the guards must have figured him to stand with the rebels, once they found him trying to escape the fray.

He frowned. The woman had appeared, her short, dark red hair glinting like blood in the morning light, and her daggers sliding smoothly into the guard trying to bind him. She’d grinned at him even then, before the pain had cut off the memory.

“You—,” Fenris tried, coughed, then tried again. “You killed the guard.”

She offered a grim smile before pressing the cloth to his head again. “Wasn’t enough, I’m afraid. There I was trying to be a hero, and now I’m being carted off for murder. Awfully rude, if you ask me.”

“Why?”

“I mean, I don’t think execution is particularly _polite_ —”

Fenris shook his head—and regretted it as it throbbed sharply— stopping her. “Why did you kill the guard?”

She peered at him with a curious look, but then she shrugged. “You don’t look like a Stormcloak,” was all she offered.

“Are you?”

With a roll of her eyes, she said, “Oh please, I’m not stupid enough to take on the Empire. No offense,” she added to the Nords in the wagon.

The one that was gagged—Uflric—gave her a withering look, but the one sitting across from Fenris only shook his head.

The cowering man, the one spluttering about stealing a horse and cursing the Stormcloaks, erupted into whining complaints again. The man sitting across from Fenris—his name was apparently Ralof—was making gentle attempts at consolation. They spoke of their homes, their trades, anything to distract them from their impending execution.

The woman, however, didn’t introduce herself, and Fenris himself remained silent even as they approached a village. His stomach flopped as the realization that his life would end here fell upon him, and his shoulders slumped.

Death was preferable to a continued life as a slave, but. He’d held on to a small hope that maybe—perhaps—he could live on elsewhere.

He slid his eyes shut as Ralof spoke fondly of a girl he’d courted in this village—Helgen, it was called.

The woman bumped his shoulder with her own. “If it helps, try imagining the executioner with a horrible wedgie that he can’t pull out until after he brings down the axe.”

Fenris couldn’t help the snort that escaped him.

A child’s voice carried from the porch of a house they passed, delighted in the appearance of the soldiers despite the grim tones of his father as he ushered his children inside. There were other voices, too, some cursing the Stormcloaks, others slandering the Empire, but Fenris tuned them out. He cared neither for the rebels nor the Imperials. He merely wanted this to be over with.

Then, the wagon lurched to a stop, and his stomach with it. He swallowed back the bile pressing up his throat, and the woman drew her hands away as the guards barked at them to stand up.

“Even at death’s door, everyone’s so _bossy_ ,” she muttered, seemingly for Fenris’ ears only. His lips twitched. He wasn’t sure if facing death with a smile such as hers was necessarily the sane thing to do, but he appreciated it nonetheless.

The cowardly man, Lokir, however, spluttered, “Why are we stopping?”

“Why else?” Ralof responded grimly as he stood up. “End of the line. Let’s not keep the gods waiting.”

Fenris didn’t believe in any gods, but he was in agreement with Ralof. Still, Lokir wouldn’t hear of it.

“We’re not rebels!” he cried.

“Face your death with some courage, thief,” Ralof said.

The wagon bounced as each prisoner stepped off the back, and Fenris eventually stumbled to the ground himself. The woman stood by him, raising an inquisitive brow. He shook his head. His splitting headache wouldn’t matter much shortly.

As the Imperial guards barked their orders at the prisoners, calling their names to line them up, Fenris took a moment to glance around. The chopping block was set before the chapel, a group of guards standing impatiently around it. There was a holy woman there as well, meant to commend the condemned. Fenris looked past the chapel and towards the mountains in the distance. The snow caps glittered in the sun, and he could make out drifts of snow dust floating in the wind off the cliffs.

His ears twitched, and he frowned. A strange sound had just echoed through those mountains. What—?

The woman nudged him. “They're calling for you,” she murmured.

Fenris jolted his head to look at the Imperial captain, now glaring at him, and the man that had been holding the list of names of the to-be-executed.

“Step forward,” the man advised, not unkindly.

Fenris obeyed, his vision swimming only a little as he shuffled towards them, hands still bound.

“What is your name?” the man asked. He was frowning, glancing over the list.

There was nothing for it. He had no other name to go by, and if Danarius happened upon the list of the executed here, there would be no more need of him to hunt.

“Fenris,” he answered.

The man nodded. “You’re not with the Thalmor Embassy, are you?” he said with a frown. “I am sorry, we will have your remains returned to your people.”

 _My people_ , Fenris scoffed inwardly. He was no more a high elf than the Imperial speaking to him. He bore their pointed ears, their large eyes, and heightened senses, but the resemblances ended there. If he had once belonged to them, a people steeped in a culture now foreign to him, it had all been eradicated. Danarius had ensured that.

The captain ordered him to move along. He paid no mind as he stepped towards the prisoners grouping up near the chopping block. He moved to stand by Ralof, who gave him a grim smile, before he glanced back at the woman.

The guard was opening his mouth to call her name, but it was swallowed up in a distant, echoing roar.

Fenris’ ears twitched again as the humans around him shifted nervously, casting their eyes to the mountains. That was the sound he’d heard earlier, bouncing off the stone cliffs again and again as it shifted the distant snows. It was deep, rough, and angry.

“What was that?” one of the guards asked, voicing everyone’s thoughts.

“Never mind that,” the captain snapped. “Get the prisoners to the block!”

One man’s name was called, and he stomped furiously to the block, spouting some nonsense about being welcomed to Sovngarde or something. He even snapped at the holy woman, who’d opened a prayer for him, to get a move on with it.

A clean chop, and the man’s head tumbled to the basket.

Fenris swallowed. He reminded himself that this would be a freedom in itself, that he would no longer have to face Danarius. Everything would cease. No more to worry about, no more to fear, because there was no fear in death.

He was not afraid, he realized. He only mourned what could have been.

“Next!” the captain barked, gesturing at him.

The woman had crept up beside him, and before he moved she nudged his shoulder. He glanced at her. There was an apology in her tight smile, as well as comfort. If there was an afterlife, he would meet her there, if only to part with her his thanks. For tending his wounds, if nothing else.

Then, Fenris was stumbling toward the block. His heart was in his throat, and he determinedly looked everywhere but the severed head of the man before him. The executioner struck the back of his knees, and he fell forward, his head landing on the dip of the block.

First, he glanced back toward the prisoners, seeking out the woman. He was unsure why he should take comfort in her presence, as he’d only just met her. She was a stranger, someone who would, like any other, place her needs over his. Had she the chance, she’d rob him blind, or perhaps even turn him over to Danarius for the hefty sum.

And yet. Her smile eased the knot in his stomach, and her nod to the executioner reminded him of the wedgie he was supposed to envision. The thought nearly made him laugh.

But then, the sound from earlier echoed once more, this time closer. Far, far too close.

The executioner was raising his axe as Fenris turned his head towards the sound, his ears twitching to place it. There were brief rushes of air, ones only made by wings, and these must be big—

Then, a dragon landed on the chapel behind the executioner, and all hell broke loose when it opened its mouth and spewed _fire_.

Fenris was bowled over, knocked off the block by the force of _something_ , and he was scrambling, trying to find purchase on the ground that blurred before his eyes and he _hurt—_

Then, there was a hand under his arm.

“Time to go,” the woman said over the shouts of the panicking guards and villagers.

Fenris stared, uncomprehending, as she managed to lift him to his feet with her wrists still bound. He couldn’t keep up. The world swam before him, screeches of people and fiery beasts filling his ears and heat blazing his skin. But the woman was looking at him, staying in his field of vision—as shaky as it was—and meeting his gaze with her warm, mirth-filled eyes. They were a lovely shade of brown, he thought.

“Right, so, there’s a dragon,” she was saying, gesturing behind him, though he felt he didn’t want to turn around. “And we should really consider running right about now. Unless you’d _like_ to be a smoked roast, but that sounds bad for the health.”

Fenris blinked, flinching at the distant crash and the uprising screams that followed.

The woman stepped up to him, her eyes glittering with excitement.

“My name is Percy Hawke,” she said. “And I really, _really_ suggest we run. _Right bloody now._ ”

When the dragon roared once more behind them, Percy grabbed his bound hands with her own and, Fenris stumbling after her, took off into the chaos and ruin.

Fenris wasn’t sure if this was much of a step up from being beheaded, but he was far too disoriented to complain. At least he knew the woman’s name now.

Percy Hawke. If they both survived the day, he would remember her


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm currently on cold medication (the drowsy kind) so i'm sure the pacing is weird. oops. i'll come back later and see, but i wanna go ahead and post this. also, i changed the title, just because it sounds cooler or something like that.
> 
> enjoy

The woman—Percy Hawke—tugged him through the mayhem, she a grounding a force and Fenris a stumbling fool. He was better than this, a trained warrior, but whatever blow had been dealt to his head was rendering him helpless. The world tilted around him, he couldn’t bring his eyes to focus properly, and Hawke’s outline was shifting strangely in his swimming vision. And the attack, the strange force from the dragon, had tugged so viciously at his tattoos that it still made him want to shrink back into himself.

Fenris could hear the dragon now. It was—it was _speaking_ , it’s guttural voice forming words unfamiliar to his ears. And yet—his tattoos were prickling with every consonant the dragon spoke, shouted, it was like something was hooking under his skin and pulling him in the beast’s direction.

A wave of nausea struck Fenris. Smoke filled his nose and bit at his eyes and the back of his throat. The screams from all directions made him press his ears flat to his skull. There were crashes, clangs of chain and metal and shattering glass and wood, and there was so much _heat—_

Fenris’ stomach heaved, and his knees found the ground where his eyes could not.

“No time for that now!” came Hawke’s voice. She was kneeling in front of him—she must have stumbled when he fell, their bound wrists still linked by whatever determination that drove her.

Then she was gripping his shoulder, pushing him so he was sitting up straight and looking up at her. “Hey there, you can vomit when we’re out of here,” she said, already awkwardly wrapping her hands around his arm to lift him up.

Fenris let her pull him to his feet, clenching his jaw against another bout of nausea as the world tilted dangerously again. He wanted to ask why she was waiting for him, why she didn’t simply leave him to die, but his throat was parched with smoke, far beyond the ability to put sound to the syllables on his tongue. So he allowed her to tug him along once more, at her urging.

People were pushing past them, screaming in their ears, and scrambling for wherever safety might be, away from the dragon and its horrible cries of destruction. Hawke led him around crumbling walls and blazing homes, side-stepping the heat and the Imperial guards that still gave them _looks_ , like they wanted to pursue the prisoners but _couldn’t_. Fenris wasn’t sure if he was relieved, considering the reason he was still alive was because of a mad dragon, but he decided to focus on Hawke’s feet before him rather than linger on the alternatives.

“There’s a series of tunnels just below this village!” Hawke called over her shoulder. They dodged chunks of stone that suddenly came hurtling from somewhere above, but Hawke continued. “If we can make it there, we should be safe, relatively. I think one of the tunnels exits close to my home village—”

A giant mass of scales, teeth, and fire soared just overhead, pushing and pulling the wind with it and tussling Fenris’ hair. Hawke pressed down on Fenris’ shoulder to duck behind a half-toppled wall. He went down too easily, collapsing against the stone with shaky breaths.

“Holy asshole of Akatosh—” Hawke swore. Fenris rolled his head to look at her, and found that her eyes were wide and her mouth ajar as she stared at the retreating hulk of massive wings and claws. But rather than fear, he noted it was with _awe_.

“What?” he demanded, squinting at her so her figure ceased to waver in his vision.

Hawke looked back at him, a strange grin tugging at her lips. “That’s a big dragon,” she said.

Fenris closed his eyes, far too disoriented to understand just what she meant, why she was _excited_ rather than terrified. Instead, he opted to focus on catching his breath.

“Looks like Ralof found one of the tunnels,” Hawke spoke, still peeking over the wall. “It must be in that building—barracks? A prison? Hmm, well, I’d say that’s our way out of here. Can you stand?”

Fenris nodded, a short jerky motion to avoid more nausea, before letting her help him back to his feet. This time, he swayed only a little, and was steady enough to follow Hawke without relying on her too much.

She glanced around the clearing, silent for a moment before nodding. “It’s clear enough, let’s make a break for it.”

Fenris nodded again, and braced himself as Hawke counted down.

“ _Now!_ ”

They burst into the clearing, sprinting across the charred grass towards the relatively undamaged barracks. Well, Hawke sprinted, while Fenris stumbled as quickly as he could behind her. There was little grace in his movements where normally he upheld a balanced gait and an elegant fluidity in his steps. Had he been in the right mind, Fenris might have been embarrassed by this sudden change, but he figured it had something to do with his head injury. He’d take care of it later, when he could bother to see straight again.

They were almost to the barracks when Fenris heard a tell-tale rush of air behind them and a horrible, guttural cry. He glanced over his shoulder to see the dragon just overhead, and it was opening its mouth—

He wasn’t sure how he came to the decision, nor why, but Fenris found that he was throwing himself at Hawke. She went down with a small, “ _Oof!_ ”, he fell atop her, intentionally or not, but he pressed her flat against the ground just in time to feel searing heat above them.

Curiously, his tattoos seemed to _sing_ as the dragon fire passed over them harmlessly, though he smelled burnt hair and his skin was uncomfortably hot. A moment of assessing the sensations, and he concluded with relief that he hadn’t been burned.

“Oi there, you alright?” Hawke’s muffled voice asked. She was still pressed into the ground by his weight. He’d had his face buried in her shoulder blade to hide it as best he could from the fire, and he felt her voice vibrate against his head and his chest.

“’m fine,” Fenris mumbled, shifting slowly until he was able to roll off her. He swallowed a few times, trying to smooth out his throat enough to speak more clearly. “You?”

“Peachy,” she replied. She sat up, grinning at him. “Thanks to you. But we need to keep moving, I doubt that’ll be the last time that dragon tries to cook us if we stay here.”

Fenris only nodded, cursing the way his vision still swam. He couldn’t keep Hawke’s figure in one place, though he knew she wasn’t moving at all.

Hawke helped him stand up, and the next thing he knew, they were inside the barracks, the heat of the sun giving way to a cool, musty darkness. The doors closed behind them, muffling the roars and screams from outside and easing the strain on his ears. He was staggering now, doing his best to keep Hawke in his field of vision as she led him further inside.

Then, she sat him down and pressed something made a glass in his hands. A vial, with a red potion.

“Drink up,” she said. “I’m going to look around for something to cut our bindings.”

Fenris blinked, and she was walking away in the dim light. The walls shuddered, sending dust fluttering to the floor as the dragon cried distantly. He shivered, twitching at the specks of rock that spilled from the ceiling to his hair and shoulders.

He looked at the vial again. It was a minor healing potion, and Hawke had already opened it for him. How she was managing these tasks with her hands still bound, he wasn’t sure, but he didn’t complain as he tipped his head back and drained it.

It was an acrid taste, but the fog in his head slowly cleared and the throbbing pain faded along with the nausea. As his aches disappeared, Fenris realized just how much he’d been _hurting_. Just what did the guards do to him before they captured him? What had the dragon done when it had first landed on the chapel, and opened its mouth to _shout_? There had been fire, but also some force that felt like nothing he’d ever known. It had been a sound, and it had almost felt… alive, somehow.

Fenris remembered how the words the dragon had shouted made his tattoos tingle. There must have been some sort of magic in the dragon’s language, as strange it was. A scowl found its way to his face. He was very, very tired of magic.

“There we are!” Hawke’s voice said from across the room. Fenris looked up, and saw that she’d cut her bindings with a dagger she’d found. She turned around and waggled the dagger at him, showing it off before ambling back to him.

“Alright, let’s get these off you,” she said, gesturing for him to hold out his hands. He obliged, after a moment’s hesitation, and she carefully slid the dagger under the rope before turning it and slitting the fibers. The rope fell from his wrists, and he absently rubbed the chafed skin.

His throat was clear now, so he decided to speak. “The tunnels are here?” he asked, tensing when the ground shuddered beneath their feet.

Hawke nodded. “The entrance is somewhere around here,” she said. “It shouldn’t be too hard to find. If Ralof was here already, all we have to do is follow whatever trail of corpses he left behind.”

Fenris frowned. _Corpses?_ “Ralof knows the way?”

“He’s a Stormcloak, he probably learned as many secret passages as he could for this exact purpose. I don’t suggest we follow him too closely, though.”

“If they’re so secret, how is it _you_ know of them?”

Hawke grinned, her warm eyes twinkling with a mirth that should unnerve him. “I like exploring,” she offered.

Fenris scowled, but didn’t press further as Hawke began looking around again.

“There’s probably supplies further in,” she said, already opening chests she found. “We can find you some weapons, maybe some armor too. Don’t think rags will be much use against—well, _whatever_ we find in these tunnels.”

Fenris raised a brow. “Such as?”

“Mmm, bandits, probably. Also giant spiders. And maybe a walking corpse or two. And who knows, maybe we’ll find another dragon.”

Fenris decided he did _not_ appreciate her chipper tone, particularly about the possibility of another dragon.

As Hawke meandered around the barracks, moving deeper underground from room to room in search of supplies, Fenris kept an eye out for weapons he could use. He was proficient in close range, though he was also familiar with archery. Daggers were useful, longswords were decent, maces dealt a fair enough damage that he appreciated—though they lacked any sort of elegance, not that he would say anything about it—

Hawke was muttering to herself as she continued her search, tossing useless scraps of hide aside and pocketing small potions and spare coin. Fenris couldn’t stop himself from glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. She hadn’t left him behind, despite how much he’d slowed her down. Even before, when they were still rugged prisoners in a shabby wagon, she’d been helping him. Fenris touched his fingers to his temple, where there was still dried blood from the blow to his head.

Fenris narrowed his eyes at the dark flecks of blood that came away with his hand. He remembered, the Imperial guard that had captured him had struck him with the butt of his sword, but it had been by no means gentle. A woman had been shouting—Hawke—for the man to stop, but not before more guards had appeared and surrounded her. She’d—she’d been fighting, but then tried to bargain. For what? For _him?_

His hand clenched around the hilt of an iron dagger he’d picked from the chest, only barely able to stifle the hitch in his breath as a heavy cold settled in his stomach.

“Found some armor!” Hawke called. “Ah— _ooh!_ And some swords!”  

Fenris hesitated, but forced himself to move towards her voice, a grim determination steadying his pace.

She was standing before a large, opened chest, holding out a chest plate at arm’s length and studying it intently.

“I think this might fit you, if a little loosely,” she was saying. “It’s got the Imperial colors, but it’ll do, I think. Everything else here is made to fit a bloody Nord. Oh, the swords are in the chest, if you want to look at them.”

Fenris nodded, keeping her in his line of sight as he knelt over the chest. There was a wide assortment of weapons, with numerous daggers and a few longswords, but one sword caught his eye. He allowed himself a small grin as he took it by the hilt and carefully withdrew it from the chest.

Hawke raised a brow, but a sly grin tugged at her lips. “Big sword,” she said, waggling her brows for effect.

He ignored her, instead testing the balance of this steel greatsword. It was old, and needed refining, but it would be of good use. Miraculously, it was of a size that wouldn’t topple him over. Elves didn’t typically use greatswords, generally preferring staffs or small blades. And yet, Fenris had always preferred them, with their heavy weight that could cleave a man in half with the right amount of force. Danarius had allowed this preference, taking measures to have swords made just for his size, though it was more for the sake of the frightening appearance than it was generosity.

Fenris narrowed his eyes, and gave Hawke a considering glance.

Then, he _moved_ , and in the next instant, the tip of his sword was barely a breath away from her throat.

Hawke stilled, her eyes widening slightly, her jaw tightening. She was still holding the chest plate, her fingers clenched around the leather as she carefully kept her arms from even tremoring.  Fenris wouldn’t pretend he didn’t enjoy the change in demeanor, how she was now reassessing him and altering the amount of respect—forced or not—she should give him for the sake of her own hide.

Neither of them spoke for a time. In those few, silent moments, rumbling shudders shook the foundations of the barracks, but they paid it no mind. The dragon was a distant concern now, a worry only for those above ground. Time slowed, and priorities shifted almost imperceptibly.

It didn’t pass his notice, though, that Hawke was taking note of any blades within her reach, possible escape routes, and whatever openings Fenris could be presenting in his stance—even if he knew there to be none. If he did decide to kill her, she would not go down without a fight, and he doubted he could get by completely intact.

Still, if a fight was necessary, he would give what he could.

 “Why are you helping me?” Fenris demanded, finally breaking the silence. He did not move his eyes from her face, intent on catching any thought her expressions betrayed.

Hawke blinked, somehow caught off guard by the question.

“If I give you an answer you don’t like,” she spoke, slowly, narrowing her eyes. “You’re going to kill me, right?”

Fenris didn’t respond, letting the silence be his answer. Hawke glanced at the blade to her throat, then looked back at him. He was startled to see exasperation cross her face.

“I suppose _common decency_ won’t cut it,” she said, a sigh in her voice.

Then, her gaze turned inquisitive, almost _softening_.

“Do remember anything?” she asked. “Before you were knocked out?”

Fenris frowned, his sword not moving, though his weary body made his arm tire more quickly than he’d like. “I was trying to escape the guards,” he said, unsure why he felt the need to answer. “Then you were there. You killed one, and bargained with the others. What were you bargaining for?”

Hawke’s brow furrowed a little, a faint crease appearing above her eyes.

“Your life,” she replied. “The guard—the one I killed—had mentioned something about a bounty on your head. Wherever they took you, you wouldn’t have survived it.”

Fenris’ grip tightened around the hilt and he scowled. “So you would have taken me for the bounty instead?” he spat, stepping forward and keeping the blade to her throat. “Is that where you’re taking me, to collect the sum?”

Hawke blinked, her eyes widening. “Wha— _no!_ I—okay, I can see why you might think that but—Akatosh’s asshole, I’d like to think I’m a half bit more decent than _that_.”

The leather armor had fallen from her grasp when he’d stepped forward, dropping to the stone floor with a dull thud. She glanced at it, but otherwise paid it no mind as she clenched her now empty fists at her sides.

“Then _why?_ ” Fenris demanded again. Another step, and his sword would pass through her trachea. He remained still, and she even stiller.

“Because you asked me to,” Hawke answered, steadily meeting his hard gaze.

Fenris nearly dropped his sword, and not because of the ache in his arm. “Explain,” he said, deepening his scowl.

She breathed slowly, then spoke. “I was just passing through that post near Falkreath, heading to my home in Riverwood. Just minding my own business, as usual, I’m very good at that—”

Fenris carefully held his tongue, deciding not to call her out.

“Then the fight broke out, and everyone was shouting stuff about Ulfric Stormcloak and his merry gang of rebels. Guards were everywhere, and I had the mind to just calmly go about my way because honestly that’s just a mess and a half—ah, right, but then I saw a couple of guards dragging you out of the stables. A nice hiding spot, by the way.”

Fenris remembered. He’d been hoping they would pass by, but something had given him away and, though panic had given him some strength, his starved body couldn’t match the Imperials that had taken him by surprise.

“And you looked over at me, and you just—” Hawke frowned again, appearing to wrack her brains. “I’m not actually sure if you said anything, but the look on your face. You were _terrified_ , and you just. Kept looking at me. As if I could do something.”

She sagged, her shoulders slumping a little, but keeping her neck from touching the blade.

“So I did,” she said. “Or I tried, anyway. Didn’t work out as well as I would have liked. So maybe you should be thanking that dragon, I think he’s the real hero here.”

Fenris didn’t move his sword. He remembered, just barely, seeing a woman distanced from the fray of the Stormcloaks. He wasn’t sure how much merit to put to her words, for his memory was still blotched by the blasted head injury, and yet. He found himself believing her, if only for her intentions.

“The bounty was placed on my head by my former master, Danarius,” Fenris told her. The words were escaping his mouth before he understood why. “He intends to reclaim me as his slave. Does this mean anything to you?”

Something flashed in Hawke’s eyes, but it wasn’t recognition. It was anger. Towards whom?

“Not much,” she said. “I know the name, though, some rich old fart with ties to the Thalmor Embassy, right?”

An old fart indeed. “Yes.”

“Does this have anything to do with your tattoos?” she asked, gesturing towards him. “They were glowing earlier, like runes, but I didn’t think you could put those on living skin.”

Fenris blinked. They’d glowed?

“They were an experiment,” he found himself explaining. “For a mage’s use, rather than my own.”

Hawke pursed her lips. “I see.” Then, meeting his gaze again with something akin to determination, she asked, “Your name is Fenris, right?”

He nodded.

“Pleasure to meet you.” She offered a smile. “I realize it’s not easy to hand out your trust right now, and I don’t expect you to, but I’m requesting that you give me the benefit of the doubt. I just want to get back home to my family. I missed last night’s supper, and Mother will be quite cross.”

Fenris furrowed his brow. “You have a family?” he asked. The question of ‘ _why did offer help when your family needed you_ ’ went unasked, but. She’d already answered it.

“Yep!” she answered, pushing past the revelation with a chipper smile. “Anyway. I’m in no state to get through these tunnels without help, and I’d like to get home in at least one functioning piece. Limbs are up for debate. And it doesn’t look like you’ve been down here before, not to mention that head injury you got. Nope—don’t give me that, you’re better now but not up to whatever your original strength was.”

Hawke took a breath, careful of the blade. “So I propose a truce. We help each other get out of these tunnels, and then, if you’re more comfortable with it, we can part ways. I’ll offer a place at the dinner table for you, though, I’m sure my family would love to have you.”

Fenris frowned, but considered. For the sake of practicality, it was a sound plan. Hawke didn’t appear to have hostile intentions, nor did she seem ingenuine with her story. He believed her, strangely. He’d keep an eye on her, just to be sure, but. For now—

He lowered his sword, giving her a nod. Hawke released a relieved sigh, and offered him a grin.

“Is this the part where we shake hands?” she asked.

Fenris’ lip quirked without his permission. “Don’t push your luck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos if you liked it, comment for literally anything else (like how badly am i botching skyrim, or the characters, or maybe just say your favorite color, idk)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris decides that maybe staying with Hawke wouldn't be so bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A friend of mine informed me that no, Skryim does not actually have runes, I'm getting it mixed up with Dragon Age. Oops. 
> 
> I'm beginning to regret having Hawke appear at the very beginning-- motivations?? what are those??-- but now we're stuck with her, which seems pretty fitting to her character.
> 
> Anyway, I somehow managed a fairly long chapter. Don't expect it again, idk how this happened.

As Hawke had predicted, the tunnels bore things Fenris would have preferred to avoid, given the choice. There were a few bandits, eager to pick on survivors from Helgen. There were some giant spiders, which had made Hawke—strangely—shriek in terror, as though she hadn’t just seen a dragon just hours before. “Ew ew _ew!_ ” she’d yelped as she plunged her dagger in one of a spider’s many eyes. “I _hate_ spiders!”

Fenris shared the sentiment, though not near to her expressive extent. Still, as he cleaned his blade of slimy innards and spider webs, he decided he didn’t like being underground at all. It was dark, damp, and dank. The walls dripped with the sweating condensation of the earth, making moist the ground beneath their feet and ensuring a difficult tread, if not unpleasant. The smell of the tunnels was a sharp cold that chilled the inside of his nose, but underneath that was a rankness of spoiled flesh and buried sewage.

It didn’t help that the idea that thousands of pounds of dirt, rock, and possibly living earth creatures—worms, he _hated_ worms—sat above his head kept niggling the back of his mind, like an annoying gnat that he’d soon discover to be a disease-carrying mosquito.

Fenris tried very hard not to think about that, for fear that his breath would start coming short at any moment in the small, cramped tunnels. He inhaled deeply, and purged the thought, instead focusing on Hawke’s steps before him.

There were also corpses, on the occasion, of bandits that had been unlucky enough to come across Ralof before them. Hawke had been correct in that he’d leave a trail for them, if unintentionally.

“He’s from my home village, Riverwood,” she’d explained, carefully ducking under a low arch in the tunnel’s ceiling. “He recognized me, but he doesn’t know that I recognized _him_.”

Fenris ducked after her, releasing a breath when he saw that the arch curved back up into a more spacious tunnel. “You are quite the actress then. Why bother hiding?”

Hawke had merely shrugged. “He’d probably try roping me into his rebellion. Something about fellow peoples of Skyrim uniting to preserve the ancient Nord traditions against the tyranny of the Empire. Or something.”

“Do you believe him?”

“I believe that he believes it. Doesn’t mean I really care much about it.”

Fenris hadn’t responded. He’d never put much thought into the happenings of Skyrim, or the beliefs of the people around him. Of course, he’d _known_ what was happening, and needed to be aware of the political climate—and intimately so—if he was to be a good bodyguard. And, since Danarius still drew breath, unfortunately, it served a reminder to just how good he’d been.

Hawke suddenly stopped in front of him, holding a halting hand up, and he stilled. When she cursed under her breath, he flicked his ears forward to catch more of her voice.

“Oh for fucks sake,” she breathed, crouching low and resting her hand on the wet stone. “It’s a bear. I am _not_ fighting a bloody _bear._ ”

Fenris peered around her, and found that there was indeed a bear, sleeping just across the large cavern. A creek trickled between them, echoing softly on the stone walls in a soothing melody. There was another opening, off to the side, where he and Hawke could potentially make their escape if they were careful about it. His bare toes dug into the damp ground. He could be silent, as he’d had much practice sneaking around his former master’s estate—as well as the estates of his master’s enemies. The question remained, had Hawke mastered any stealth?

The grin she shot him over her should told him that she was going to try regardless.

“I’d suggest staying as far away from the bear as possible,” Fenris murmured.

“That’s the plan.”

“And if it wakes up?”

“Well, you have a _rather_ large sword.”

“I could simply let it eat you, if you prove a decent distraction.”

“What, with _my_ stringy muscle and scrawny limbs? It would hardly take two seconds to finish me off, and then you’d be alone with a grumpy bear.”

Fenris blew air through his nose. “Let’s get on with it, then.”

They crept silently through the cavern, listening for any change in the bears heavy snores. Its breath stuttered for a moment when Hawke’s foot slipped into the creek, the soft splash exaggerated by the reverberating echo, but it didn’t wake up. Fenris shot her a glare, to which she responded with a sheepish shrug before pressing onward.

Finally, _finally_ , they made it past the bear, and Fenris could smell fresh air just ahead.

Hawke, it seemed, was just as ecstatic to reach the ending, and startled him when she burst through the exit with a resounding “ _Whoop!_ ” as she threw her fists in the air and laughed.

Fenris emerged just behind her, casting a wary glance around the area in case there were any straggling guards or creatures crawling in the shadows. Hawke paid little mind, breathing deeply the fresh, brisk air that the wind brought down from the mountains. He couldn’t blame her, as the faint scent of snow and brush was a much more pleasant alternative to the damp behind them.

Then, Hawke turned around to face him, propping her fists on her hips as she considered him.

“Alright, so now what?” she asked.

Fenris raised a brow. “We make good on our deal,” he replied.

Hawke frowned. “If you like, then of course, I won’t stop you from going.” She tilted her head. “Gods know you should be getting as much distance from Solitude as you can.”

Something lay behind her words, and she was hesitating to reveal her implication. Fenris tensed, unsure, but ready to unsheathe his sword if needed.

“Are you making another proposition?” he asked instead, narrowing his eyes.

“Of sorts,” Hawke responded with a nod. Then, she gestured towards him. “You’re still injured, and you’ve barely enough supplies to last you another day.”

“I can manage.”

“I have no doubt you can.” Hawke raised her hands in offering. “But managing is a lot different than traveling with relative ease, and you’re going to want to be as little miserable as possible if you’re going to stay on the run.”

Fenris knew she was right. If the last week—or few weeks? months?—had been any indicator, he’d starve sooner than Danarius could find him. Had the Imperials not captured him, he surely would have wasted away on the road, or fallen to bandits that would have easily overtaken him in his weakened state. Even as he stood before Hawke, his body yearned for food, ached for rest he hadn’t received since his decision to escape. The mere thought of a meal made his knees shake, just slightly.

Still. If only for the principle of it, he couldn’t let her convince him so easily. It was foolish, but his pride was the only thing that remained intact.

“You’re suggesting I remain with you?” Fenris asked tersely.

Hawke nodded. “Not for much longer, if you insist on leaving Skyrim,” she said. “Just long enough to regain your strength and gather more supplies.”

“And how long will that be?”

“Depends. My sister is a healer, so she can tend to your wounds, but everything else will be up to you.”

Fenris narrowed his eyes. A healer? “Why are you so quick to offer your aid? I have done nothing to service you.”

Hawke shrugged, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “You helped me get away from the dragon.”

“I slowed you down, you could have escaped on your own.”

“You assisted me through the tunnels, so you helped me escape the executioner’s blade.”

“Apparently, I got you captured in the first place.”

“You killed the biggest spider for me.”

“Which you could have done had you not been so squeamish.”

“And you have such an optimistic, uplifting attitude, I’d feel dreadful for letting you face the wilderness all on your lonesome.”

“I still don’t see any valid reasoning on your part, Hawke.”

Something glinted in her eyes when he spoke her name, but it vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

“Then maybe,” she drawled, flapping her arms at her side. “I’m just too damn nice. Father did used to say I have a bleeding heart. Something to do with taking home wounded wolves and cats and such, I don’t know, but I _don’t_ like the idea of just letting you go unaided. Call it a pride thing, if you would.”

Fenris looked away. The trees shifted in the slight breeze, cooling the sweat on his brow and sending a shiver down his back and limbs. He shifted his feet, knowing if he stayed still for too long, he’d sway noticeably. The small rocks on the path dug into the thick skin of his bare feet, and he focused on the pressure for a moment.

If he went with her, he’d be giving up the opportunity to make a hasty escape. The original plan had been to cut south as quickly as possible and with few witnesses. Joining Hawke would alert anyone in Riverwood to his presence, and then her family would know of him.

That was a thought.

“Danarius won’t stop hunting me,” Fenris said, turning back to face Hawke. “If he discovered that you gave me shelter and safe passage, he will find a way to make you pay. And your family.”

Hawke paused, her lips pressing into a thin line. At least she was sane enough to give the idea considerable thought. And yet—

“If that fool of a mage decides to pick a bone with me,” Hawke said. “There won’t be much stopping me from killing him. Kind of want to already, from what you’ve told me.”

He’d barely told her anything. He shook his head.

“He is too powerful for you to face, not without magic of your own,” he explained. “Besides, then you’d have his alliance with the Thalmor Embassy to deal with, and they don’t take kindly to having their allies killed.”

Hawke’s mouth _quirked_.

“Well,” she said. “Let’s just say I have ties of my own that provide me at least a smidge of protection.”

Fenris peered at her, but then she turned away, suddenly nervous.

“And about that magic…” she said. “I figured since being around a shitty mage probably made you aversive to it, so I—well, I haven’t been using mine.”

Fenris’ ears flicked to press back against his skull, and he narrowed his eyes in a glare as he instinctively moved into a defensive position. His hand raised so he could more swiftly grab his sword.

“Yeah, that’s about what I expected,” Hawke said. She offered a weak smile, though she appeared… sad?

“You’re a mage,” Fenris spat, stepping back.

“I am.”

“And you expect me to believe that you helping me has nothing to do with my markings even now?”

Hawke sighed and held out her hands. “I don’t expect anything from you,” she said. “I want to help you, that’s all, I swear it.”

“Then why hide your magic from me until now?” Fenris reached for his sword, noting how Hawke’s eyes followed his hand.

Hawke peered at him for a moment, her lips pursed in thought. Then, she heaved a breath, crossed her legs and… sat down. Her legs were folded on the ground, her hands resting in her lap, and she looked up at him with a smooth brow and a gentle smile. It was a move often made to calm frightened dogs, or call in the more excitable ones. Fenris scowled.

“I didn’t want to frighten you,” Hawke answered. “That’s all.”

Fenris scoffed. Benevolence was fine and all, but not to the extent Hawke was pretending to show. Her insistence on helping him, for no other reason than _wanting_ to, was impractical. And a little unnerving, if he was honest. There had to be some other motive, a hidden scheme that would strike like a snake hidden in the brush, made worse by her possession of magic.

Still, he could commend her for having a believable smile, if nothing else. He almost _wanted_ to believe her.

Fenris turned his head to look to the south, where he’d intended on going. He wasn’t entirely sure what lay beyond the borders, but whatever was there, it would be better than any life continued on a leash. And yet, Hawke made frustratingly reasonable points. He couldn’t go on much longer without supplies, without healing.

He breathed through his nose, then turned to face her.

“If you make any motion to cross me, I will kill you,” Fenris said, meeting her gaze. “Make no mistake.”

Hawke nodded. “Of course,” she said, placing her hands on her knees. “So does that mean you’ll accept my offer?”

Fenris considered. “For now, yes.”

Her face split into a grin, and she stood up and clapped her hands. “Brilliant! Now let’s get home in time for supper. Do you fancy stew?"

* * *

 

Riverwood was a small village, named for the murmuring river just down the banks. It was quiet, but homely. Children were playing with a dog along the paths. A blacksmith’s hammer sang its melody on metal. Someone was strumming a lute in the inn, and warm scents of bread and meat and other foods wafted from nearly every home, dizzying Fenris as he passed.

He thought he caught sight of a familiar head of yellow hair disappearing into a house, his Stormcloak armor glinting in the thin sunlight before the door closed. From the twitch in Hawke’s lips, she’d seen it too.

They shuffled through the village, ignored for the most part, but Hawke received a few hearty greetings here and there. Some of the inhabitants stared at Fenris, a stranger at the side of a familiar face. Questions were murmured, but often shrugged off. It didn’t seem too strange to see visitors, considering the village lay on one of the paths to Whiterun.

Most interesting, though, was the bright smile that lit up Hawke’s face when she spotted a certain house, closer to the river.

“Haven’t seen such a wonderful sight in weeks,” she said as they approached. “I should come home more often.”

“Yes you should!” a voice floated from inside.

Fenris’ ears twitched, but he steadied himself. While he certainly wasn’t letting his guard down anytime soon, he didn’t need to get too jumpy.

Hawke laughed, and she bounded up the steps as the front door opened to reveal a girl perhaps a few years younger. Her black hair was cropped short, just at her jaw, and freckles dotted her round cheeks. Her skin was darker than Hawke’s, but they had the same brown eyes, the same button-ish nose. She furrowed her brow and put her hands on her hips, glaring at Hawke.

“You were supposed to be home two days ago,” she said.

Hawke stepped up to her with a wide grin. “I got caught up in a job,” she explained. “And made some new friends. And we all know of my perpetual tardiness anyway, so why keep bringing it up?”

The girl huffed. “Because I wanted to cook the goose that night, but then we had to wait, all because of your failings as a living, breathing person.”

Fenris blinked.

Then Hawke bellowed a laugh, and the girl’s glare twitched into a smile as a giggle broke past her lips and she was enveloped in Hawke’s arms. She hooked her own arms around Hawke, rocking back and forth a few times as their bright laughter warmed the doorstep. As they embraced, however, the girl looked over Hawke’s shoulder and noticed Fenris awkwardly standing at the foot of the stairs.

“Oh!” she said, pulling away from Hawke. “Is this that new friend?”

Fenris wanted to scowl, as he was no one’s _friend_ , but Hawke answered for him.

“Of course!” she said, waving to him. “This is Fenris. Fenris, this is my sister, Bethany.”

Fenris inclined his head to Bethany, who smiled.

“Pleasure to meet you,” she said. Then, she gestured inside. “I’m sure we can fit one more at the table. Are you—oh, _Percy!_ ”

Hawke and Fenris both blinked as Bethany rushed down the steps. Fenris flinched when she approached him so quickly, but held his ground as she gave him an assessing look.

“You’re injured!” she exclaimed, peering at his temple—probably still caked in old blood— before roving her gaze across his body. She reached toward him, as though to touch his forehead, but pulled her hand back before Fenris could protest. Then she looked back at Hawke. “Percy, why didn’t you mention it?”

“I was working on it,” Hawke offered weakly. “He’s had some healing potions.”

Bethany huffed. “Not nearly enough, clearly.” Then, turning back to him, she said, “We have better, homemade potions inside, and I know some healing magic too. If you’d like, we can tend to you. And—oh dear, have you eaten at all?”

Fenris dumbly shook his head, and Bethany nearly squawked.

“ _Percy!_ ” she cried.

“I was _working_ on it!”

Then he was being ushered inside, and his nose was bombarded with a mix of mead, warm bread, and a faint twinge of alchemic chemicals. His head swam, and he was quietly grateful when Bethany slid his greatsword from his shoulders and sat him down in a chair next to the dinner table. A plate of slices of bread and a chunk of cheese was pressed into his hands, and he blinked up at Bethany as she retreated into the kitchen.

“Percy!” she called. “Go fill him a bowl of stew, there’s a pot over the fire.”

Hawke spared Fenris a grin before shuffling away to do as she was told. There was a fire pit to the side, and, sure enough, an iron pot was strung over its glowing coals.

Fenris looked at the plate he was given, and decided there was nothing for it. He bit into the bread, relishing that it was fresh and still warm.

“Where are Mother and Carver?” Hawke asked as she ladled out the stew.

“Down at the river,” Bethany replied from the kitchen. “Carver found a new fishing spot and Mother got excited. Something about bigger trout, or something. They should be home soon.”

Fenris raised a brow. More family? He wondered if they were nearly as… hospitable, as Hawke and her sister. Did ‘hospitable’ even hold a light to it though? Is was as though the idea of Fenris’ discomfort—let alone injury— was an offense in itself. Something twisted behind his sternum, though he was distantly startled to find that it wasn’t… unpleasant.

That was when Fenris realized this would have been the first time someone had ever served _him_. It was an uncomfortable thought. After a lifetime of striving to please every whim of those who owned him, he hadn’t considered being at the other end of the bargain. He took care of himself, always, it was—it felt _wrong_ to be served in such a manner. And yet, these people didn’t treat it like an obligation. They wanted to. Hawke had wanted to from the beginning.

Fenris’ head swam again. He didn’t want to think about this, else he felt he wouldn’t keep what little he’s eaten down.  

He forced his thoughts elsewhere, and found them settling on the absence of Hawke’s father. She had mentioned him before, but she didn’t ask for his whereabouts, though he clearly wasn’t around. Had he passed? Fenris quickly discarded the thought as well, scolding himself for any concern on her behalf.

Bethany emerged from the kitchen, holding a tray that bore a potion, a bowl of what was probably water, a kit of sorts, and some rags. She set it on the table and pulled a chair up next to him before sitting down, rag in hand.

“May I?” she asked, holding up the rag.

Fenris eyed the contents of the tray, before looking at Bethany, unsure. She had casually mentioned that she had healing magic, which he wasn’t one to trust. And yet she was already going about it in a more traditional manner, with potions and poultices. Was this a trick?

“Go easy on him, Beth,” Hawke said, approaching with a bowl of stew and setting it on the table. “He’s not the trusting sort. Oh, and he doesn’t like magic.”

Fenris shot Hawke a flat look, which she returned with a grin. Bethany gave him a considering glance.

“We don’t have to use magic,” she told him. “There are other ways to go about it, just ones that take a little longer. I’ll need to give you a check-over, then, if that’s what you want.”

Fenris considered, then nodded. “No magic,” he said.

Bethany nodded as well. “Alright, I’ll need to look at your eyes first, in case you have a concussion.”

Fenris leaned forward at her beckoning, and the next few minutes went as much the same. He did his utmost to stifle any flinch as Bethany poked and prodded him, but she was as gentle as she was thorough. She issued commands to Hawke on occasion, telling her to dab a rag here or to fetch a blanket and such. Eventually, Bethany asked him to strip to his waist, where she found a painting of bruises across his arms and torso, clashing with his markings. She had pursed her lips then, but if she had any comment to make, on either the bruises or the markings, she kept it to herself.

The final verdict she issued, as he redressed, included a minor concussion, two fractured ribs—which he hadn’t even noticed before—dehydration, and malnutrition. A few potions healed the worst of it, and the meal offered by Hawke aided the rest.

By the time Fenris had quietly—but quickly—finished the last of his stew, his eyes were drooping low and it was becoming more and more difficult to stifle the frequent yawns.

“We have a spare bed,” Hawke told him. She picked up his empty bowl. “If you’re still insistent on leaving, you can head out after a good nap.”

Fenris didn’t have the energy to protest. He didn’t understand how _she_ was still walking about with a bounce in her step. He merely nodded, and shakily stood up from the table to allow her to lead him to the spare bedroom.

There was still light outside, though warmer and dimmer as the sun lowered in the sky. Soft beams of light cast through the windows and onto the walls, and Fenris blinked blearily as they passed it. Hawke opened a door to a small bedroom to the side of the kitchen. It could have been a storage closet, once, but Fenris found he didn’t care as he set down his armor and shuffled to the bed.

Hawke didn’t comment that he set his sword against the bed, merely offering him extra blankets.  

The last thing he remembered, as he sat in the bed, was Hawke’s smile, before she disappeared behind the door.

* * *

Fenris awoke to murmuring voices.

At first, he rolled back over, intending on catching more sleep, though he inwardly cursed that he’d let his guard down so easily. But the weight of the greatsword against the bed reassured him, and he released a sigh as he settled into the mattress again. It was much comfier than he could have imagined, more so than anything given to him by his former master. Slaves only had tattered bedrolls

He nearly dozed off again, but then his ear flicked when one of the low voices spoke, “… and Fenris—”

His eyes opened. The room had darkened in the twilight, and he found himself facing the slanted wall of the A-framed house. A small window to the side let in the barest amount of an evening glow, and he guessed that the sun had set a while ago.

Fenris flicked his ears to better hear the hushed conversation.

“—and you’re saying you were attacked by a _dragon?_ ” a new voice gasped. A woman, older than Hawke, probably her mother.

“Well, not me _personally_ ,” Hawke’s voice replied. “But there was definitely a dragon, and he was definitely attacking, for whatever reason.”

“Dragons are supposed to be extinct,” another, deeper voice spoke. Carlton, Carmichael—right, Carver.

“This one apparently didn’t get the memo,” Hawke retorted.

“And Fenris?” Bethany spoke up. “Where did you find him? And what were those markings?”

He imagined Hawke shrugging. “He didn’t say much. Something about an experiment. He was—running away from slavery. I think he was—ugh— _owned_ by this mage named Danarius.”

“Danarius?” Hawke’s mother echoed. “I shouldn’t be surprised that nasty piece of work would do something so—”

“Vile? Yeah, me neither.”

“Those markings looked like some sort of an enchantment,” Bethany said. “Do you think—?”

“Probably,” Hawke replied. Her voice had darkened. Fenris wondered why.

He sighed, pushing himself from the bed.

“But why did you feel the need to take him in?” Carver asked. He sounded incredulous. “He got you captured, for bloody sake.”

“Yes, I remember it fondly.”

“Don’t joke about that, you almost got executed! For no bloody good reason!”

Fenris tensed, his hands on his armor. Had the dragon not appeared, Hawke would have died that day. And it would have apparently been his fault.

He closed his eyes, reminding himself to breathe. Then, his armor clasped back on and his sword strapped to his back, he crept to the window. A faint breeze pushed through the frame, ruffling his hair, and cooling his face. There were stars beginning to peek through the rustling trees, and a lone wolf howled somberly in the distance. He placed a hand on the sill, about to prop himself up and through the opening, when Hawke spoke again.

“I _know_ , Carver. It wouldn’t have been the first time either.”

“Percy!” Hawke’s mother protested.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to share that. Look, Carver, I just—there’s something about him. I don’t know what, but—I want to help him.”

Fenris paused. He stared out the window, but his ears still focused on what was behind him.

“Help him with _what?_ ” Carver asked. “Danarius is a self-righteous git, but he’s powerful and he’s got a lot of friends. Are you planning on fighting them?”

Hawke laughed. “If it comes to that, sure,” she said. She didn’t even hesitate saying it, no ounce of insincerity in her voice.

Fenris clenched his fist against the sill. She didn’t know him. They’d only just met. He’d nearly gotten her killed—had almost killed her himself a couple of times. How could she be this foolish?

As he withdrew his hand from the window, however, he realized he was just as much the fool, though he wasn’t sure if it was for letting his opportunity slip from his fingers or for—for being as he was. He scoffed. None of that made sense even in his head. With a sigh, he turned and quietly opened the door.

“All that’s fine and all,” Bethany was saying. “But if there’s a dragon flapping around—don’t you think someone should tell the Jarl?”

Hawke let out a sigh. “You’re right, Beth, as always. I’ll set out tonight.”

“Tonight?” her mother echoed. “You just got back and now you’re going all the way to Whiterun?”

“It’s only a short walk, Mother. Okay, maybe a lengthy-ish walk. But I’ll get there in a few hours, it’ll be fine.”

“Not alone, you’re not,” Carver said. “I’ll go with you.”

Fenris rounded the corner, finding the family standing around in the kitchen. Bethany had pulled up a chair, and Hawke’s mother—who Bethany seemed to take after, with darker skin and a round face—appeared to have been scaling fish. A tall, young man—Carver, most likely—towered over Hawke, his arms crossed and his brow furrowed. His hair was as dark at Bethany’s, his skin a similar shade, and he wore the uniform of the guard. It seemed that Hawke had taken more after her father, wherever he was.

“Nope, you most certainly are _not_ ,” Hawke retorted, waving her hand. “With a dragon on the loose, you need to stay here with Mother and Bethany. The guard will need all the help they can get.” Hawke paused, then added, “Though, since the guard isn’t much against big teeth and fiery breath, you’ll probably just need to hightail it out of here.”

“So you’re just going to walk around at night by yourself?” Carver asked, incredulously, sidestepping the idea of a dragon attack for favor of pointing fingers at Hawke. “Haven’t you tempted fate enough in the last twenty-four hours?”

“What can I say, it’s a hobby of mine. Tempting fate, I mean.”

“ _Percy._ ”

“I will accompany Hawke.”

Everyone’s heads shot up to look at Fenris, who had spoken up from where he stood close to the wall. He shuffled his feet, and didn’t meet their bearing gazes.

“Oh Fenris, did you sleep well?” Bethany asked.

He nodded. “I thank you for your aid,” he said.

Carver and their mother shared a look, but the mother only smiled at Fenris.

“I’m glad you are well,” she said. “You’re welcome to our home anytime, and to whatever supplies you need.”

“He’ll probably need all of them if he’s going with _Percy_ ,” Carver muttered.

Fenris looked at Hawke then. She was ignoring Carver, instead pinning Fenris with an inscrutable look. Her brow was slightly furrowed, her eyes intense as she studied him. Fenris suddenly had a thought that perhaps she’d known he would have slipped through the window. It disquieted him, oddly.

“Are you certain?” she finally spoke. “You know you don’t have to.”

Fenris met her gaze. “You have helped me greatly,” he said, quietly. “I will return the favor.”

“We’d certainly appreciate it,” Hawke’s mother said. “Wouldn’t we, Percy?”

“I—yes of course but—Fenris, you’re _sure?_ ”

He was silent for a moment, considering her concerned expression, and the implications of him staying at her side. His plan would be further delayed. He wouldn’t be able to leave Skyrim until his debt to Hawke had been repaid. It would mean aiding her as often as he could until he could make up for nearly getting her killed, and for her turning around and saving his life. He’d be tied down, again.

And yet—he felt it wouldn’t be hard debt, not with Hawke.

“I am certain,” he said.

Hawke blinked, but the smile that pulled her lips somehow warmed him.

“Well, I hope you’ll like Whiterun,” she said.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos if you liked it, comment for anything else. mistakes in the chap, what you liked about it, what you did today, what's your favorite food, all that jazz.


End file.
